Crashing
by mcatB
Summary: Downtime has its dangers, too. Losing control leads to crashing, and visa versa.
1. Chapter 1

Crashing

By Mady Bay

Thanks to Shywalk and November's Guest for beta reading.

They hadn't been in their motel room for twenty minutes, as long as it took to stow their weapons, grab quick showers and put on clean clothes, before Dean announced that he was going out.

"Gonna get a drink. Play some pool. Maybe get laid," he'd said, and was out the door.

Sam had just nodded, as he usually did. It had become routine lately. Find a gig (or be sent to one by their dad), kill the demon/ghost/monster/insert baddie of your choice here, get out of town, find a motel in a different town, and crash for the night.

Crashing for Sam meant sitting up against the headboard of the bed, vegging out in front of the television set. Not quite watching, not quite listening, but using the white noise to calm his nerves, allowing himself to think on happier times, happier thoughts, and trying to put whatever gruesome or horrible thing they'd just dealt with away, into one of the back closets of his mind, hoping to forget about it, like old, outdated clothing and rarely used sports equipment.

Crashing for Dean meant going to the local bar and engaging his mind in other activities. Having a beer or two, flirting with some pretty women, playing some pool (sometimes not even for money) and immersing himself in normalcy. Like Sam, he used these 'happy thoughts' to push his experiences with evil to a dark corner of his mind. Unlike Sam, though, he needed the bars, or places in _other_ people's every day life, to accomplish this. He didn't have the happier memories to use. Not like Sam did.

And so, as Dean walked toward "Davy's Last Chance Saloon" and saw the lineup of Harleys and Yamahas and Hondas parked out front, he smiled at the thought of hooking up with some leather clad biker bitch in an hour or two.

00000

The place was dark, seedy and exactly how Dean expected it would be. If he'd been able to hear anything over the sounds of the Skynard tribute band playing, he'd have heard the noise his boots were making as they stuck and unstuck to the hardwood floor as he walked across the room to the bar.

He ordered a bottle of Bud from the bartender and leaned back against the edge of the bar, propping his elbows on it, as he surveyed the place. At the far south corner was the stage. The band wasn't half bad, he thought, though nothing like the originals. Looking at them, he didn't think they'd even been born when all of Skynard's members were still alive and kicking. Not that he'd be able to complain – half of the stuff he listened to was made before he was born, too.

The bartender put his beer down on the bar behind him and collected the cash Dean had left for it. Dean picked it up with his left hand and took a swig, savoring the coolness in his mouth and throat first, before caring about the taste.

The second time he brought the bottle to his lips he took the time to taste it. He smiled a little then. Nothing like good ol' American beer. Sam always went for the Canadian stuff.

Drink in hand, Dean continued his survey of the bar. On the west side of the place was a large alcove – a wing to the place, if you'd want to call it that. Three pool tables, a jukebox and a couple of old pinball machines were there. Two of the pool tables were currently in use, or in use for pool, anyway. The third one had some guy and girl rolling around on it, obvious foreplay going on. Dean had no doubt that in this place, if they decided to go further, no one would blink an eye.

He decided to watch the other tables for a bit. See who the players were, see who the hustlers were. Decide whether he'd play for fun, money, or both, and with whom.

By the time he'd finished his beer, he'd pretty much figured out who'd he'd play. He ordered another beer and after getting it, headed for the first pool table and the twenty-something kid with the dragon tattoo on his forearm.

He'd beat the kid fair and square, no hustling, no money involved, just because he could. Even when the kid had challenged him to play a second game, for money, Dean had refused. He'd accomplished what he'd needed, putting the faces of the demons of the day onto the balls, locking them away in his mind as he watched them disappear into the pockets.

A drink, a game of pool… only one thing left on his list.

And as the blonde in brown leathers sidled up next to him on his way back to the bar, whispered in his ear and walked to the back door, he made another checkmark on his list.

00000

Sam turned over on the motel's bed and looked toward the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly two in the morning. The bed next to him was still empty, telling him that Dean was still out. He wasn't worried or anything. The bars in this town didn't close until three and if Dean followed his routine of late, and had found someone to spend some time with, he probably wouldn't be back until dawn.

He looked over to the television next, saw Chuck Norris exercising on his latest workout machine. He hated this infomercial. Where was Christie Brinkley? The one she was in was better. Sam shook his head at the thought – the woman was old enough to be his mother... Sam rolled his eyes in frustration. He'd obviously had some unsuccessful attempts at ignoring the television shows late at night. Maybe next time he should just go with Dean to a bar. Alcohol, gambling and sex seemed to do the trick for his brother when it came to clearing dark thoughts.

00000

Dean was sitting at a table with Maren and Todd. Maren being the blonde in brown leathers he'd gotten mostly naked and sweaty with in the bar's storeroom, and Todd being the kid with the dragon tattoo he'd beat at pool. They were brother and sister, as it turned out.

"Come on, Dean," Todd cajoled for the hundredth time. "Just one more game. You can't just beat a guy and walk away. You gotta give him a chance to redeem himself. Give me a second chance to kick your butt."

Dean took a swallow of beer and smiled. "I don't give second chances. They bite you in the ass."

Todd rolled his eyes at the seriousness of Dean's tone. "Oh, come on. It's just a game of pool. Not like we're playing for money or anything."

Dean was starting to not like Todd anymore. Not that he really liked him to begin with, but he'd been being nice to him, because he wanted a second round with Maren.

"Why you so hot to play me?" he asked.

"Todd's just new to the game," Maren spoke up. "Looking to prove himself."

She received a punch in the arm from Todd for the remark, as he retorted, "I'm not some little baby."

Something in his tone, sounding like a typical little brother, made Dean cave. "Fine. _One_ more game."

Todd smiled and headed for the pool table. Dean took one more sip of beer before standing and heading there as well. He put the bottle of Bud onto one of the wall shelves near the pool table and nodded for Todd to break.

Maren joined them, seductively coming up behind Dean as he leaned over to make a shot, and reached around his waist to playfully fondle him.

"Hey, who you rootin' for here?" he asked her, trying not to let her distract him from his shot.

"Whoever wins, of course," she laughed and moved back toward the wall, away from the table.

It was during the next game, against Maren this time, when Dean had started to suspect all was not right with the siblings. He'd missed an easy shot. He _never_ missed an easy shot, well, not unless he was hustling someone, and he hadn't been. When he started seeing double, he knew he was in trouble. He'd only had four beers. In four hours.

"Son of a-," he got out before Maren shoved him face first down onto the pool table.

00000

At seven-thirty a.m. the motel room door opened and a dark silhouette filled the space.

"Dean?" Sam called, eyes squinting at the light behind the figure.

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean replied quietly. "Go back to sleep."

Everything was fine. Their normal routine was still in place. Dean came back to their room, Sam woke up, Dean told him to go back to sleep.

Sam, content, mumbled a quiet greeting from under his covers, put his gun back under his pillow and rolled over, doing as he was told.

Dean stumbled into the bathroom, closed the door, and slid down to the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sam opened his eyes next, he saw the clock on the bedside table. "Shit!" he swore, seeing the numbers. It was already 11:15, past checkout time. "Dean?" he called, pulling off his blanket, wondering how and why he'd slept so long. Dean was usually the first one up, getting them packed up and gone well before checkout.

But when Sam looked over at Dean's bed, he saw that it was the same as it had been all night – empty – and not slept in. Or on. Had he only imagined Dean coming in this morning?

"Dean?" he called out again, now walking toward the bathroom, seeing the door closed. "Why didn't you wake me?" he asked, knocking on the door.

Sam started to worry when he heard no sounds from inside. No water running, no shower, no Dean telling him to quiet down. He turned the knob and found it locked.

"Dean!" he shouted, pounding on the door, now. "Dean, I'm gonna break the door down if you don't answer me! Dean!"

His leg raised, poised to kick, Sam was surprised and relieved when the door unlocked and came open a bit.

"Keep the noise down, Sammy. And don't break the door. We can't afford to pay for it," Dean told him, his voice sounding gravely behind the door.

"What the hell, Dean?" he asked opening the door some more, moving into the small bathroom. "Shit!" he swore, seeing Dean's face, a dark bruise covering most its right side. Sam grabbed Dean by the chin and turned his head, getting a better look. "Are you all right? What the hell happened?"

Wincing as he broke from Sam's grip, Dean just said, "A little disagreement. Nothing exciting. I'm fine."

Sam knew there had to be more to it, Dean was being too quiet, too nonchalant about it. He looked over the rest of Dean's body, looking for other signs of injury. Dean looked a little disheveled, but he didn't see any blood anywhere and he was standing upright…

"I'm fine, Sammy. Just the usual shit, you know? Someone took exception to my playing skills," Dean said, moving Sam out of the way to walk out of the bathroom.

Sam watched, dismay and confusion showing on his face, as Dean dropped his jacket onto a chair, took off his boots and socks and proceeded to get into bed.

"Do me a favor, call the front desk and book another night for us," Dean said as he rolled to his side and buried himself under the covers.

Sam nodded automatically to his brother's request and did just that. Then he tried to look at Dean again, to see his face, to check the bruise. Dean opened his eyes just then, knowing he was being scrutinized. "I'm fine," he insisted. "Just the usual. Had a drink, played some pool, got laid, got into a fight…" He looked at Sam a bit longer before adding, "Better than staying in and watching those stupid infomercials at night," and turned over, away from Sam's gaze.

Sam shook his head at the insult. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe Dean just had a few extra drinks. The last job they'd done had been pretty nasty, after all. Little kids, siblings, were involved, being terrorized by some weird ghosts.

He walked into the bathroom and looked around. Dean had used a few washcloths, it seemed. They weren't covered with blood; the first aid kit hadn't been opened… Sam took a deep breath and let it out. He'd overreacted. Yeah.

00000

By mid-afternoon, Sam decided to go get something to eat. Dean hadn't so much as twitched since falling asleep hours earlier. Sam still wasn't sure if he should be worried or not. _Something_ wasn't right.

Sam sighed and shook his head. _Something wasn't right_, he thought again. Yeah, like anything in their lives _were_ right? They hunted down ghosts, goblins, demons, witches… you name the baddie from any nightmare or campfire tale and they'd seen it and kicked its butt.

And had their butts kicked right back, too. They weren't superhuman. Fists still hurt. Words hurt. They ate. They slept. They got drunk. They were _guys_… Sam smiled then, thinking on some of his drunken college adventures. He wasn't always the good college boy Dean thought him to be.

For the first time in a few hours, Sam relaxed. Dean was fine. They'd both had worse encounters with the monsters and demons. A bar fight was nothing. Sam continued walking toward the delicatessen, ready to order a couple of subs for them.

00000

Hearing the door latch shut, Dean let out the breath he'd been holding. Took deep breath in, regretted it, and let that one out, too.

"Fuck," he swore, turning over onto his back, his entire body in pain. Dull aches and sharp stabs both fought for his attention.

Taking another deep, but more cautious, breath, Dean managed to sit up. Throwing the covers to the side, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and planted his feet on the floor. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he swore again, the words coming out in quiet succession of their own will.

Reaching out a hand, he grabbed onto the bedside table and used it to lever himself upright. The dizziness and nausea he'd come back to the room with that morning were still with him, though lessened, and he managed to stay upright. He could do this.

He found his duffel bag and rummaged through it, grabbing some clean clothes, and headed for the bathroom.

It didn't take long to shed his soiled clothing, wanting to be rid of it as soon as possible. He'd have done all this sooner, this morning when he'd gotten in, or later when Sam had woken him up, if he'd had the energy and thought he would have been able to stay upright for this long. If he thought he'd been able to get away with it. Without Sam finding out.

Dean shut his eyes tight; winced as the right one stung; winced some more as his hand automatically reached up to touch it. He was going to look at in the mirror, but changed his mind. He reached for the shower faucet, instead.

Tired, he dropped down to sit on the toilet, and took care of business while the water warmed. After finishing, flushing without looking, he managed to get to his feet, using the sink's countertop for leverage, and climbed into the shower.

Leaning against the cool tiles as the hot water rained down upon his body, Dean wasn't sure if it felt good or not. The warm water felt good on the bruises, but stung the scratches and cuts. It took all his willpower just to stay upright and not slide down onto the tub's bottom.

Finally steeling himself, knowing he didn't have a lot of time before Sam returned, he grabbed the soap and began to wash away the blood, dirt and filth from the bar.

00000

When Sam returned to their motel room, Dean's bed was empty and the sound of running water was coming from the bathroom. He dropped the bag of food onto the table in the corner of the room and turned on the television, automatically changing the channels, surfing for something good, finally settling on a rerun of _The X-Files_.

Shortly after the noise of the shower ended, Sam heard a few muffled curses from his brother. He smiled, figuring Dean had gotten his first real good look at his face. Then he tried to come up with what Dean would say about it. First, he'd moan and groan about the bruises _messing with perfection_, but then he'd change tactics and talk about how the chicks would feel sorry for him after he came up with some heroic tale about how he'd gotten them: pushing some little kid out of the way of a moving vehicle, rescuing some damsel in distress from her abusive boyfriend…

00000

Dean heard the sound of the television, _The X-Files_ theme song, and shook his head, a half-smile coming to his face. He wasn't surprised, though. He'd gotten his brother hooked on the show. When Mulder and Scully weren't dealing with Cancerman and Krycek, were dealing with things more up _their_ alley, they'd gotten some good laughs. They played their own version of _Mystery Science Theater 3000_.

He finished dressing, slower than normal, and bundled his dirty clothes up in one of the clean towels. Closing his eyes once more, he took a second more to put up the façade, then opened the door.

"Hey, Sam," he called to his brother, walking out of the bathroom and over to his duffel bag. He stuffed the towel and clothes inside and zipped it up. "Which episode is it?" he asked.

"Kill Switch," Sam replied around a bite of his sub. "I got you a sub. Roast Beef."

"That's the one with the Goth computer chick, right?" Dean asked, slowly walking toward Sam, hoping his brother was more interested in the show and his sub than his brother's ability to walk at the moment. "The one where Mulder gets tortured by the hot nurses?"

"In the virtual set up, yeah."

Sam kept his face toward the television, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw how Dean was hurting. If Dean didn't want to make a big deal of it, he wouldn't. It would be useless to try, he'd learned over the years.

"So what else've you been up to today? Find our next gig?" Dean asked as he finally sat down at the table.

"Maybe. Some stuff up near Binghamton, New York. There was a big flood up there. Since then, a bunch of people have reported strange appearances in their houses; ghosts."

Dean nodded. "Houses get wrecked, things get moved, hell, even the cemeteries shift a bit underground with all the water. Bound to upset a few dead people."

"If we left tonight, we could be there by tomorrow night. Start fresh the next morning," Sam suggested.

"No."

Sam thought Dean's denial came a bit too quickly.

"I'm a little more sore than I thought," Dean added just as quickly. "Bitch of a headache. We'll leave in the morning."

Sam looked at Dean more carefully. Yes, there was pain in Dean's eyes. He wasn't lying about that. But that never stopped Dean before. Something else was up. Sam thought some more. "You're going back to the bar," he said, shaking his head. "What, you got kicked out and gotta just step one step in, to prove you could?"

Dean shook his head, an annoyed look on his face. "No, no, no," he denied. "Nothing like that. Just some unfinished business, that's all."

"What kind of _'unfinished business,'_ Dean?" Sam asked. "The kind that means I need to keep the car running outside?"

"No," Dean denied quickly, playfully slapping the back of Sam's head. "The kind that means I want to play a game of pool and recoup my losses."

"You _lost_!" Sam's eyebrows were high on his forehead in disbelief. "My brother, the pool shark, _lost_!" Then he changed direction, putting up his hand. "No, wait… I know…you didn't lose. You just lost the _money_ when they beat the crap outta you for hustling them, right?"

"Yeah, something like that," Dean replied with a tight smile and a short nod.

"So I _am_ gonna have to keep the car running outside."

"Yeah, I guess so."


	3. Chapter 3

Dean didn't move out of the chair once he'd sat down to eat. Sam noticed that. All his brother did was move the curtain away from the window, looking down the street toward the bar, and watch. He was obviously waiting for someone.

Sam had seen the bar on his way to the deli earlier. It had that rough look to it that Sam knew Dean liked. Probably had a rough clientele, too. This was not the type of bar college kids hung out in, the kind Sam had frequented at Stanford. This was a townie bar, the kind where everyone knew everyone else, where there were 'regulars,' and where if you weren't one of them, you'd better know how to fight. Dean's favorite kind of place.

Sam knew then, that there was no way in hell that he was going to be waiting in the car while Dean went back in tonight. Whatever, and/or whomever, Dean had to take care of, Sam knew that even if Dean was in top form, he'd need back up to handle them. The fact that Dean _wasn't_ in top form right now, however he would deny it if Sam mentioned it, proved that.

But would Sam call him on it? Would he just follow Dean in, or sneak in later? _Hell,_ Sam thought, _I should just drive right on by the place and not let Dean go in at all! Yeah, and then you'd never hear the end of it from Dean and he'd just find a way to go back there anyway, Sam._

"Stop thinking so hard, Sammy. I'm going in there and you're not."

Sam's mouth gaped open as his eyes flew to his brother.

"And shut your mouth before some flies get in. This is me, Dean, your big brother. The one who practically raised you and therefore knows all when it comes to you."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam got off his bed and walked toward the bathroom, flicking his hand against the back of Dean's head as he strode past his brother. Dean smiled a little, but as soon as the door to the bathroom closed, he let out a sigh and slumped down in his seat.

He'd spent the past hour fighting the pain in his gut and lower back, trying to keep Sam from seeing it. He was ready to throw up the half of the sub he'd managed to down, for appearance's sake. Again, to keep it all from Sam.

Why the hell couldn't he tell Sam? Why the hell was he so afraid to show weakness in front of his brother? Why the hell couldn't he let his guard down? Why the hell _had_ he let his guard down?

Needing to get across the room quickly, the sub making its way back out, Dean thrust himself up from the chair and lurched toward the bathroom. He'd just made it to the door, hands on the doorjamb, when Sam opened it.

Sam stood back, startled, but saw the look on Dean's face and quickly stood aside, making way for Dean to get to the toilet.

"Dean? You okay?" he asked over the retching sounds his brother was making.

After a few seconds, Dean replied, "Stupid question to ask a guy that's puking, Sammy. But, yes, I'm fine." He threw up again and once more, before saying, "At least I will be, as soon as I'm done, anyway."

Sam grabbed a washcloth and put it under some cold water, soaking it through and wringing out. He handed it to Dean, who was sitting on the floor next to the toilet now, his stomach seemingly finished with its torture.

"Thanks," Dean replied, wiping his face and mouth. "I'm good now. You can go."

When Sam tried to protest, Dean gave him a shove and closed the door after him. Then he reached up and pushed the button on the knob, locking the door.

"Dean?" Sam called from the other side of the door, knocking impatiently after he'd found the door locked.

"Can't a guy have a little privacy? Huh? I gotta piss now, if that's okay with you!"

The knocking stopped and Dean dropped his chin to his chest, thankful for small favors.

Getting to his hands and knees first, and then standing, albeit stooped over, he reached over and flushed the toilet. After washing his hands and face, Dean looked into the mirror. He didn't like what he saw.

The sharp pains in his lower back and belly returned and had him doubling over. He bit his lip to stifle the cry of pain that wanted to come out. He didn't want Sam breaking the door down. And he _really_ didn't want Sam seeing the results of his big brother's stupidity.

Yielding to his body's demands, unable to stay upright any longer, he opened his jeans and let them drop. Shoving down his underwear, he sat down on the toilet with a groan. This time, when he finished, he looked. _Too much blood,_ he thought. "Fuckers," he whispered.

00000

When Dean emerged from the bathroom too many minutes later, Sam was waiting for him.

"Dean-"

"I threw up, Sam," Dean interrupted. "Nothing too horrible about throwing up, now."

"When half your face is bruised, throwing up usually means you have a concussion, Dean," Sam countered. "This could be serious."

"My head is _fine_, Sammy. I'm throwing up because I'm still hung over."

The brothers stood toe to toe with each other, each trying to stare the other down. Each trying to win the argument. Sam looked away first, shaking his head in frustration.

"So should I pack up? Be ready to high-tail it outta Dodge after you get your revenge?" he asked.

"Probably be a good idea."

Sam looked at Dean again. "What the hell, Dean?" he asked, incredulous. "What happened last night? What _really_ happened?"

Dean held his ground. "I told you. A bad game of pool. I lost too much."

They stared at one another again for another minute before Sam again backed down and turned away, muttering, "Fine."

Dean tried not to sigh too loudly as Sam walked away. Sam didn't deserve this, he knew, and maybe, when this was over, he'd give Sam the explanation that he _did_ deserve. But not yet. Not until he took care of things. Not until later. Maybe.

Dean walked over to the bed, retrieved his knife from under the pillow and picked up the sci-fi novel he had hoped to read from the nightstand, and shoved them both into his duffel bag. Glancing around the room for anything else that might have been theirs, he saw that Sam had been doing the same. They were packed that quickly.

He let Sam lead the way out the door and to the Impala. They threw their bags into the back seat.

"You turn in the key to the front desk. I'm heading over to "Davy's"," Dean told his brother. "I'll meet you outside when I'm done."

Sam nodded and headed for the front desk. As Dean walked across the parking lot, he checked his gun, seating it more comfortably in his waistband and under his coat.

00000

Sam stopped at the door to the motel's main office and turned, looking at Dean. Was that a limp? Dean's gait was slower than normal, he'd noticed, but… "Shit," he swore. He quickly entered the office and put the key on the desk and waited as patiently as he could for the clerk to check their records, to make sure there were no other charges to the room before she let Sam leave. As soon as the clerk made eye contact with him again and nodded that all was okay, Sam thanked her and would have run out the door if he didn't think it would look too suspicious.

He hopped into the Impala, started it up and quickly drove down the road to the bar, parking across the street from the line of motorcycles. Seeing the bikes, he confirmed his earlier assumptions about the establishment.

And confirmed his earlier decision that there was no way in Hell that he was waiting out in the car.

00000

Before Dean entered the bar, he mentally braced himself. He had to be in top form. He had to hide all the pain, all the hatred, and all the emotions – anything that would be seen as weakness – anything that would work against him.

As soon as he entered, though, and the sounds and smells assaulted him, memories of the night before came flashing back. He had to stop in the doorway for a moment, while he cursed to himself, and brace himself all over again. He ignored the curious looks he knew he got, knowing that everyone that entered the bar would get them. His game face was on again.

He scanned the bar, the stage and finally the alcove with the pool tables, searching for them. He knew they were here. He'd seen them arrive while he watched from his and Sam's motel room. He saw them park their bike. They had to be here. He didn't have the time to wait for them; he didn't have the strength. He wouldn't be able to stave off Sam that much longer.

Finally, a flash of blonde caught his eye, and he saw them, Maren and Todd, sitting at a table in the alcove. His view of them had been blocked by a couple of guys watching the game. He eased his gun into his right hand, held it tucked up tight next to his thigh, and started walking toward them.

00000

Sam entered the bar, feeling self-conscious when heads turned in his direction. They soon lost interest, though, and he realized they had just hoped it was another of their drinking buddies, ready to greet him.

He looked around and sized up the place, as Dean and their dad had taught him, looking for the exits, looking at the people, the bartenders, the layout.

He caught sight of his brother just as Dean drew down on a blonde woman near the pool tables. "Shit," he muttered, feeling his own gun in his pocket as he hurried through the crowd toward them.

00000

"You owe me some money, Bitch," Dean said, pointing his gun at Maren, and keeping his eyes on Todd, as well.

"Surprised to see you here, Dean," Todd drawled. "Thought you might've had enough fun last night."

"Again, my money, Bitch," Dean repeated a little louder, noticing the crowd paying attention to them. "You've got some thieves working this place," he told the crowd. "They were pissed they couldn't hustle me at pool last night, so they had to resort to plain out stealing. Beatin' up a poor guy and rolling him for his money. And hell, they're such wusses, they had to drug me first."

He sensed movement behind him and whipped the gun around, pointing it without looking directly behind him. It was enough to stop the man in his tracks and he quickly realized how dangerous Dean was. He put his hands out, placating, and backed away.

"I'd pay him if I were you," Sam's voice called as he joined the small group, moving deftly between people to get to his brother. "He's not in a very good mood."

Dean stole a quick glance at his brother, mentally cursed him for coming into this situation, and returned his attention to the siblings.

"We only took what we deserved," Todd spoke up.

With Todd's admission, most of the crowd moved back, apparently satisfied that Dean had proper justification for his actions, even if it was against two of their own. Dean put the gun away, knowing Sam would have his back.

"You didn't deserve _anything_ you got last night," Dean sneered.

"You're right," Maren agreed, standing up and daring to step closer to Dean. "At least about the money." She smiled, then. "But what else we got… I'd call it a fair trade."

Dean didn't even think about the punches, they just happened. But the next thing he knew, Sam was calling his name and pulling him back away from Maren's prone form. He continued to fight Sam's hold, looking for Todd, as he was dragged to the bar's entrance.

"I _got_ him," Sam told him, somehow knowing what he was thinking. "He's down for the count. Now let's get out of here."

Dean just nodded and let Sam lead him out of the bar and across the street to the parking lot.

"The money," he said, just as he was about to open the car door.

"I got that, too," Sam replied. "Now shut up and get in before we have fifty Hell's Angels after us."

And Dean did shut up. No longer able to hold in the pain, he doubled over and slid down to the ground next to the car.

"Dean!"


	4. Chapter 4

Sam was at Dean's side in an instant, his arms wrapping around his brother's shoulders to keep him off the ground. "Dean?" he called, worry obvious in his voice. He put a hand to the side of Dean's face. "Come on, big brother, open those eyes for me."

"Sammy?" Dean whispered back. "Call the doctor. I think I'm gonna crash."

"You already did," Sam replied, shaking his head at Dean's train of thought – he was spouting Eagles' lyrics… "What's goin' on, Dean? Where are you hurt?"

"Everywhere?" He cried out then, turning away from Sam, trying to curl up into a ball.

"Easy, easy," Sam soothed. "Come on, let's get you into the car. I'm taking you to a hospital."

"Yeah. I think that's probably a good idea."

Sam's worry increased exponentially at Dean's admission. Messing with Hell's Angels, or their local counterparts, didn't scare him at all – not when compared to how hurt Dean must be if he was willing to go to a hospital.

He carefully helped Dean into the passenger seat of the Impala, and as he headed around to the other side of the car, whipped out his cell phone. He dialed 911 and asked for directions to the nearest hospital, talking to the police dispatcher and starting to drive at the same time.

"One of these days, Dean, I swear," Sam mumbled to himself. Then to Dean, he asked, "How bad? What did they do to you?"

Dean remained silent, though, focusing only on holding his body as still as possible as Sam negotiated the road, its turns, and bumps. And that scared Sam, too. Dean should have been complaining about his driving skills, worried about his precious car.

Fifteen minutes and ten miles later had Sam driving the Impala up to the Emergency Room entrance of the hospital. The police dispatcher must have given the staff there a heads up, because several people and a gurney met them there.

As they rushed in, Sam couldn't help but notice how bad Dean looked. He was sweating profusely now, his skin was too pale, and he was still way too quiet. He tried to answer as many of the nurses' questions as he could, telling them that Dean had been involved in a bar fight the previous night, that he'd thrown up several times and how it seemed Dean's most intense pain was his belly and/or back, judging by the way he'd been guarding himself.

Sam knew enough about Dean's symptoms to know that his brother not only had a concussion, but was probably bleeding internally, too. He cursed himself again for not pressing Dean further, not getting his brother help sooner.

Sam's last glimpse of Dean before being stopped at the edge of the cubicle to which they'd brought him, showed the bruises on his chest and abdomen one nurse had exposed after cutting off Dean's shirt.

"We'll need some more information about your brother's medical history," another nurse told him, gently leading him to a desk down the hall. "We'll do our best for him," she added, seeing Sam's worried look.

Sam nodded and gave the woman the information they needed for Dean's care.

00000

Dean moaned, turned his head back and forth, and tried to dislodge the oxygen mask that had been placed over his mouth and nose. He'd tried to use his hands to move the plastic thing, but found them useless, tied down/restrained/whatever they did when they'd shoved the IV tubing into them. He was hoping that those IVs would be sending some painkillers his way pretty soon.

"Dean? Dean can you hear me?" It was a man's voice.

Dean opened his eyes and looked toward it. He winced as the light from the doctor's penlight hit them, forcing them to close again. Unfortunately, the doctor just forced them back open.

"Dean," he called again. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"Fight."

"Tell me where you're hurting, Dean,"

"My gut. My back. Just look for the bruises, Doc, "X" marks the spot," he replied with a groan.

The doctor had already seen the bruises mottling the skin on Dean's torso. He wasn't happy to see how many there were, or how deeply colored they were, either. He began to check the injuries, lightly pressing down on the four quadrants of Dean's abdomen.

"Jesus, fuck!" Dean swore when the doctor reached the lower ones. "I think you can start pumping in the good drugs now, ladies," he added through gritted teeth as he tried to turn away from the doctor.

"He's got some rigidity in the two lower quadrants," the doctor told one of the nurses holding Dean down. "Let's turn him, check his back."

"No. No, you don't have to move me. Really."

The doctor made eye contact with two of the nurses and in unison they turned Dean onto his left side, so that they could take a look for more injuries. The movement did not come without a scream and some more cursing from Dean.

One of the nurses also removed the rest of Dean's clothing from underneath him. "Hey, Steve?" she spoke up, getting the doctor's attention. She pointed to what was left of Dean's jeans and underwear.

"Okay," he told her, then continued his examination. "Bruising over his right kidney," he noted. "Have we got any output from the Foley yet?"

"There's blood," someone responded.

The doctor moved so that he was in Dean's line of sight. It was easy to see that Dean, despite the pain he was in, despite the state of physical shock he was heading toward, knew exactly what was going on at that moment; knew what was coming next.

The doctor saw the fear and trepidation on his young patient's face, but asked the question anyway.

It took almost a full minute before Dean was able to nod in response, closing his eyes as he did so. He felt the doctor's hand gently squeeze his shoulder. Again, Dean nodded, then retreated into his dark world and regretted not being able to tell Sam.

"Wendy, let's get the usual bloodwork and an MRI set up. I want a skull series, too. The kit'll have to wait," began the various orders the doctor gave as he continued to examine and treat Dean's injuries.

00000

Sam sat in the waiting room, mulling over his current thoughts of Dean. Stubborn Idiot ranked high on the list of names he'd come up with for him. Asshole, jerk, and just plain idiot were also on the list.

Occasionally he would stand and then and pace around a bit, his hand massaging the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the tension. It didn't work. The nurse at the admissions desk had offered him coffee a few times. He finally relented and accepted, hoping to make the woman feel better, but once he'd taken a token sip for her, he'd put it down and promptly forgotten it.

He thought about calling their dad; didn't.

_All this, Dean practically killing himself, not taking care of himself, just for some stupid pool winnings, _he thought angrily. _Because someone had tried to hustle him and took offense._

The blonde's face came to Sam's mind. _She_ had tried to hustle Dean. She had _drugged _him. That alone was enough to make _Sam _mad, let alone Dean. Yes, Sam definitely saw Dean taking that a little personally.

Sam's brows knit together, then. _There must be more to it, though,_ he thought. _She_ had seemed to take it more personally. _Bitch_. What had she said to Dean? Something about "fair trade"? Sam shook his head. He didn't understand it at all.

He dropped his head onto the back of the couch and thought up some more names for his brother, unconsciously, or maybe consciously, avoiding the fact that his brother was in a very bad way, and the fact that _he_ was very, very scared.

00000

"Mr. Wesson?"

Sam stood up as the doctor called to him.

"How's Dean?" he asked immediately, his eyes showing his desperate need to know how his brother was.

"Why don't we sit down," the doctor suggested.

Sam recognized the tone in the doctor's voice, and didn't like it. "Just tell me," he told him.

"Mr. Wesson-"

"Sam."

"Sam," the doctor corrected. He took a seat, his position forcing Sam to do the same. "Your brother was beaten very badly."

"Tell me something I don't know. Tell me how he is now." Sam didn't care if he came off as rude. He wanted to know how Dean was.

"He's in surgery now. There are internal injuries; bleeding," the doctor went on, not put off at Sam's tone at all. Keeping Sam's attention, he continued, "We're most concerned about damage to his right kidney; there's blood in his urine and extensive bruising."

Sam nodded. "What else? Concussion?"

The doctor nodded this time. "Yes, a mild one. He's got some spectacular bruising on his face and temple region, but I'm confident that it looks worse than it is. Same with his ribs – bruises, but no fractures." He took a moment and let out a sigh.

"What?" Sam asked. "What else?" There was something else. He knew it. He knew it was bad.

"There was some physical damage from the sexual assault," the doctor began, quickly adding, "Nothing too serious; some stitches and we're already starting him on a heavy dose of antibiotics-"

"Wait! What?" Sam interrupted. His eyes were wide, his head shaking in denial. "_Sexual_ assault?"


	5. Chapter 5

The doctor sighed and looked down at the floor. He hadn't even thought… "I'm sorry. I thought you knew," he told Sam, meeting his gaze once again. "But yes, along with the physical assault, your brother was sexually assaulted."

"He said he'd been drugged; I didn't piece it together," Sam murmured, standing up and walking away from the doctor. "Goddammit, Dean," he swore under his breath. "You couldn't tell me?"

Sam was torn between his need to stay at the hospital, waiting for Dean to wake up so he could continue with his plan to knock some sense into his brother for ignoring his injuries, and his wanting to return to "Davy's" and go Old Testament on the couple that had done this to his brother.

"Mr. Wesson?"

Sam turned to find the doctor standing next to him.

"This isn't an easy thing for someone to go through," the doctor began. He held up his hand at Sam's incredulous expression, staying the young man's words. "Even more so for a man. Us men, especially the younger ones, like you and your brother, we like to believe we know how to take care of ourselves; that it's only the weak who become victims. So when it does happen to us, it's not so easy to admit."

Sam nodded, but didn't say a word.

"We have a great SART program here," the doctor continued. "That's Sexual Assault Response Team," he explained. "Counselors, police, medical staff… once your brother is able, they'll be in to talk to him, help him through this."

Sam smiled sadly as he shook his head. "Don't count on it," he responded.

The doctor pulled a business card out of his coat pocket and handed it to Sam. "You never know," he said. "The surgical waiting room is directly upstairs, second floor." He patted Sam on the shoulder and headed back to the treatment area.

Sam looked at the card, saw the MSW designation behind some woman's name, and dropped it onto one of the low tables covered in magazines.

00000

"Dean? Dean it's time to open your eyes now."

Dean heard the woman's voice. He wasn't quite sure what she was saying, but he recognized his name, at least. He was tired and when he tried to move his body, to a more comfortable position, his arms and legs moved sluggishly, as if not entirely in his control. But his back hurt; he needed to move. He tried harder to roll onto his other side.

"Dean? You need to lie still, Sweetie." The woman's voice again.

He tried to think of who she might be. She brushed her fingers through his hair. He opened his eyes, hoping to see whom she was, but found only blurry shapes moving around him. Then he felt the hands on his body, around his wrists, on his legs, on his hips, all holding him down. Visions of a bar and a pool table suddenly came to mind. The image of a pretty blonde woman smiling at him opened up the floodgates of his memory.

"No!" he shouted, struggling against the hands. "Get your fucking hands off me!"

"Take it easy, it's all right," the woman soothed. "You're safe now."

"Fuckers!" he called them, realizing he didn't have the strength to fight back, as the pain flared in his back, paralyzing him.

"Hold him down!"

"No!"

00000

Sam sat watching his brother sleep. A few hours earlier the surgeon had come to the waiting room to tell him that Dean made it through his surgery just fine, that they were able to stop the internal bleeding in his abdomen – most of it from small blood vessels in his muscles, not from any of his internal organs; that Dean's kidney, while badly bruised, should be okay, with time and rest as well.

They would keep Dean in the hospital for the week, at least, monitoring his urine output, making sure that the kidney healed properly, that no infections set in, etc., etc., etc. There was also mention of those SART counselors coming to see him.

Sam thought about telling them that they should keep anyone mentioning any sort of counseling the hell away from his brother, or he'd be AMA before they could blink an eye, finding the tubes and wires Dean was currently hooked up to dangling in the wind.

Sam wondered when the police portion of the team would find them, though he wasn't worried about the fight in the bar, about the couple pressing charges against he and Dean. The people in places like "Davy's" handled their own. They probably knew Dean wasn't about to call the cops on them, either. Hell, his and Sam's appearance the second night proved that. By all intents and purposes, the incident should be over with, as long as he and Dean never stepped foot into the bar again, anyway.

A quiet, pain-filled moan brought Sam's attention back to the man in the hospital bed.

"Dean? You awake?" he called quietly.

Another painful moan, then a whispered, "Sammy?"

"Right here, Big Brother," Sam replied, gently placing his right hand on top of Dean's head.

"Son of a bitch."

"Try not to move around so much," Sam told him. "You just got out of surgery."

"Surgery?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "You know, for the internal bleeding you didn't tell me about." He had tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but didn't fully succeed.

Dean looked a little confused, his eyebrows furrowing at Sam's words, before slowly meeting Sam's gaze as his memory returned. There was no apology, though. He'd done nothing wrong. Instead, another painful groan escaped Dean's lips as he tried to turn away. But Sam gently tightened the grip he had on Dean's head, preventing his brother from looking away.

"I swear, Dean," Sam went on. "I could probably find you with a knife through your heart and you'd tell me it was just a scratch, your damn stubbornness alone keeping you alive, at least until whoever stabbed you died."

Dean closed is eyes, unable to meet Sam's gaze any longer, hearing hard truth from his little brother, but knowing he'd never change, not willingly.

"Closing your eyes? A little second grade, don't you think?" Sam balked, frustrated at the one-sided conversation.

"I'm fine, Sammy. Been beat up before," Dean protested, opening his eyes, not liking the second grader remark. But then he saw the new anger in Sam's eyes and wished he were asleep again.

"'_Beat up'_! Dammit, Dean, they _raped_ you! How could you not tell-"

"Get out, Sammy," Dean growled, anger and maybe a little fear in his voice.

"We've got to talk about this, Dean."

"No. We don't." He made the mistake of trying to sit up and practically screamed as his back protested. "Goddamn doctor, doesn't he know anything about HIPPA!" He grunted and groaned in pain, trying to roll onto his other side. "Didn't I tell you to get out, Sammy!" he got out, tears forming.

A nurse, hearing the shouting, came into the room, worried for her patient. She hit the call button on the side of the bed, to summon some additional help in calming down her patient.

"Please," she said to Sam, "You better come back later."

Realizing that she was right, that he and Dean would just argue more, agitate Dean more, and cause him more pain, Sam complied. "We're not done with this," he told him before leaving.

00000

Sam sat in the hospital cafeteria, playing with his bagel, twirling it around on its side, not eating it, and contemplating what had just happened. He thought he'd understood Dean's actions, or in his case, _in_actions. But Dean's blatant denial of anything more than participating in a bar fight had frustrated Sam. He'd tried to open Pandora's Box and Dean had immediately slammed it shut again.

Dean and his secrets were nothing new to Sam. Hell, he had a few of his own. But they were just some things that were better left unsaid. Nothing that would endanger his life, if left unspoken. Or would they?

Sam dropped the bagel and thrust his hands through his hair in frustration. _Put yourself in his shoes, Sam. Would _you_ tell?_ he pondered. _If I was hurt... If I needed help... _And then the doctor's words came back to Sam: "_We like to believe we know how to take care of ourselves; that it's only the weak who become victims."_ That was a perfect description of Dean if Sam had ever heard one. He shook his head angrily.

"He's twenty-six. He's not going to change now. He wants to pretend nothing happened? Fine," Sam decided.

00000

The next few days passed slowly. Sam made short visits to Dean, just to let his brother know he was still around, still nearby. They made no mention of the sexual assault, keeping their conversation on Dean's recovery, cute nurses, the local goings on, the situation in Binghamton, the weather… They were talking. Just, _not_ talking. Sam thought they could, cliché as it sounded, cut the tension with a knife. And it would take one of Dean's very large knives to do it.

He spent most of his time alone in his motel room – a new motel, ten miles from the hospital, in the opposite direction of the last one they'd stayed at, the one near "Davy's."

As he had told Dean, he had kept up on things – no one from the bar had come looking for them. He'd even gone back there one night and watched from the parking lot, seeing the couple there, acting as if nothing had happened. It had made him upset to think that they were going on with their lives while he and Dean had been torn apart, it seemed.

He felt not one bit of guilt or remorse when he backed into the line of motorcycles and sent them toppling.

On Dean's fifth day in the hospital, things finally took a turn for the better.

"So the doctor said you're doing good." It was the same thing Sam had said every day, trying to open their conversations.

"Yeah. The blood's pretty much all gone from my kidney. Haven't passed any since yesterday. So the stupid catheter comes out later. Can finally take a piss on my own."

"Good. That's good."

A few minutes passed by without either talking, without either making eye contact. Sam stared at his boots, lining them up against the seams in the tile floor. Dean looked out the window, watching a couple of squirrels chasing each other.

"Sammy." "Dean."

Their gazes met, hurt seen in both.

"You first," Dean told Sam.

"If you don't want to talk about it, I should respect that. I should know better than to force you to something you don't want to do." _Someone already did that._ "But I'm here, to listen, if the time ever comes."

Sam noted that Dean was no longer looking at him, but out the window again. He waited for the outburst, for Dean to throw him out of the room again for bringing up the subject.

"Dean?"

"You know it's a sad day when I start talking about urine output and intimate body functions with my brother. Damn. We gotta get some better material, Sammy."

"I checked on the situation in Binghamton," Sam began. "Nothing bad, no one's been hurt seriously – just the startled, scared tripping over things as they run from the house or room type injuries. Nothing that can't wait."

Dean nodded. "We could probably be there in a few days."

"You still need to take it easy. Just because you'll be able to piss on your own doesn't mean you're ready to take on some ghosts, Dean," Sam warned.

"Sure it does!" Dean replied. "Don't you remember? You salted your first bones two weeks after you got out of diapers!"

Sam rolled his eyes at the exaggeration. It was two _years_.

Okay, so they still weren't talking about _'it,'_ but they _were_ talking again. Sam would take whatever he got.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam wasn't surprised when Dean checked himself out of the hospital, AMA. It was probably only a few days sooner than his doctor would have recommended, but it was enough that Dean was still far from 100.

Sam watched with worry as Dean, brown paper bag full of medicine and post-discharge directions in hand, made his way oh too slowly across the hospital parking lot to the old Impala. When he opened the door he had to stifle a laugh, though, as the loud creak it made synchronized perfectly with Dean's movements to get into the passenger seat.

"What?" Dean asked, looking down at himself, after seeing the smirk on Sam's face.

"Nothing," Sam replied and closed the door, watching Dean, secretly hoping the creak and squeak and Dean's movements would align again. After the week they'd had, Sam would take any sort of humor he could get, even at Dean's expense.

Sam got into the driver's seat, shut his own creaky door, and looked at his brother. He could see how Dean was holding himself, doing his best to get comfortable and not move at the same time. He was about to suggest Dean take one of the pain pills he'd been prescribed when Dean held up his hand between them and ground out, "I'm fine, Sammy. Let's just get the hell outta here."

Sam sighed. They were apparently back to not talking again. He turned the key, the Impala roared to life, and they were on their way.

00000

Dean had fallen asleep about half an hour after they'd left the hospital, not that Sam had been surprised. Hell, he'd been relieved. It was a whole lot easier to drive and not have to worry about what to say, or, more importantly, what _not_ to say, that way.

Sam was so frustrated at not being able to do anything for Dean. Not that he knew what he could do anyway. This was so different than any other time Dean had been injured.

Over the years they'd both had their visits in and out of hospitals and doctors' offices. They'd taken turns, along with their father, patching each other up, too. Dean was great at stitches, there being a few scars on Sam's body that Sam knew would be a lot more noticeable if anyone other than Dean or a plastic surgeon had done the sewing. Sam even remembered the time Dean had been thrown across the room by a nasty poltergeist, breaking his arm. Their dad had set the bone himself, Sam holding firmly onto Dean's upper arm as John had pulled on Dean's hand and wrist, straightening out the radius.

But this time… Sam could look at Dean's physical injuries. He'd seen the bruises on Dean's abdomen and back. The ones caused by the bar couple _and_ the surgeons. He tried to think of them in a clinical way. He tried to lie to himself, using Dean's lie, that he'd _just_ been in a bar fight. But he knew better. He knew it was more than that. He knew that it was more than money that they'd taken from Dean, more than his flesh that they'd injured, no matter what Dean said.

He thought back to his time with Jessica. It had been so easy to talk to her, their conversations about anything and everything, other than the family business, coming so naturally. She'd told him about her family, even so far as divulging _her_ family secret – that her mother was an alcoholic and had neglected her and her brother. She'd never told anyone about her, until Sam, and he remembered her telling him how good it was to finally let it out, how by talking about it, it had been therapeutic. Sam had come so close to telling her about _his_ not-so-idealic family life then… If only Dean would talk about what happened, how it would be so ther-…

He shook his head at his line of thinking. Dean and therapeutic in the same sentence… _Yeah, right._ When had Dean ever talked things out? Even when he'd been electrocuted, given less than a month to live, Dean had brushed it off, refused to take it seriously, refused to talk about his feelings. After they'd left the Roosevelt Asylum, Sam had wanted to talk about it, apologize, but Dean had wanted nothing to do with it. Just another day on the job; no emotions; no feelings necessary. _No,_ Sam thought, smiling sadly, _Dean had them – emotions and feelings – he just kept them inside_. Unless, of course, it was anger, hate or anything that had to do with exacting revenge, killing demons or shooting anything evil.

Sam shoved a Metallica cassette into the tape deck. He didn't mind the music so much when it was by _his _choice. _His choice._ Sam rolled the words around in his head. _His choice... Damn._ Sam realized that there wasn't anything more he could say to Dean at this point. Some basic lessons he'd learned in one of those First Year Experience classes at Stanford finally came back to him. He vividly remembered the female campus police lieutenant that taught the class, and her words about rape and its victims. About their choice being taken away by their attackers, and how the first thing to do for them is to give back their freedom to choose... Sam hit his fist against the steering wheel. Why hadn't he remembered this a few days ago?

Dean had dealt with the world's evil for the past twenty-two years of his life, and those two at the bar were just two more on the long list of baddies. Maybe the best thing for him to do _was_ to let Dean deal with this on his own, in his own way. _By his own choosing._

A few hours later Sam pulled the car into the motel parking lot. Dean didn't even budge when he pulled to a stop in front of the place's office doors.

"Dean," Sam called, gently shaking his brother's shoulder. "Dean."

"Mmm… yeah, what?" Dean murmured, opening his eyes to look around.

"I'm beat. We're stopping for the night," Sam told him, pointing out the window to the motel's sign.

"Yeah, sure. Where are we?"

"Near the Pennsylvania border," Sam replied. "I'll be right back," he added, got out of the car and headed into the office.

Dean took the time to carefully stretch, getting himself ready to get out of the car. While he knew he could and should just drop the tough guy act he'd been giving Sam, knowing his brother, as always, had seen right through it, it wasn't easy. He was the big brother. He was the bad-assed demon, ghost and evil-thing hunter. He was an expert marksman, trained to be a weapon. Trained to… Dean stopped his train of thought then and shook his head, angry with himself. He'd let his guard down, ignored his training, and had paid the price. _Sam thinks it's so much more,_ he thought, _trying to make it into some life altering experience, something he'd need to 'talk' about. Yeah, like he'd wanted to talk about what had happened at the asylum? _It was a lesson learned, albeit a hard one, and nothing more.

This was the same conversation he'd had in his head for the past five days…

Sam returned to the car and drove them to the other end of the parking lot.

"Room's on the second floor. Sorry," he told Dean with a shrug.

"I can deal," was Dean's only reply.

Sam handed Dean the key to the room. "Head on up. I'll grab the bags."

00000

Two weeks later, the Impala drove away from Binghamton, New York and headed west on Route 17.

It wasn't any different from any other ghost gig they'd handled over the years. They'd talked to the families in the haunted houses, barns, garages, or wherever. Found out the family histories, checked out the local legends at the libraries and historical societies… In the end they'd managed to salt and burn the bones of almost a dozen ghosts in and around the area, and come out unscathed. No different than any other gig. Except…

Except that when they returned to their motel room each night, they _both_ stayed in. They _both_ stayed up late watching bad infomercials and old black and white movies waiting for exhaustion to claim them.

There was no need to go hustle some money at a pool table. Dean had come up with enough fake or stolen credit cards to pay for their essentials: gas, food, lodging, salt and ammo being the top items on their grocery lists. Dean was subtle about it, but Sam didn't question his methods. For now he was just as content to stay out of the bars.

He wondered when that would change, though. _If_ it would change. He wondered what they'd have to deal with, what horrible monster would need a good hangover to forget. Not that he was asking for that kind of trouble, he just knew that it was inevitable.

A day and two states later, inevitable called their name.

"Minnesota?" he asked Dean, looking at the map in front of him, half on the dash and half in his lap.

"Yeah, the coordinates are right on."

Sam looked at the coordinates they'd been sent, and again at the map, and nodded, seeing his error.

Four teens had disappeared from a small community. Then they'd been found, their dead, broken bodies mysteriously appearing in a small, public park exactly two days from their disappearance.


	7. Chapter 7

Four teens had disappeared from a small community. Then they'd been found, their dead, broken bodies mysteriously appearing in a small, public park exactly two days from their disappearance.

00000

"Easy, Sammy," Dean whispered, putting a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder.

Sam nodded his understanding, but kept digging, anyway. He'd never had to dig up a child's grave before.

They'd arrived in town just the day before and had unfortunately gotten to see the bodies of the victims, four young teens, all around thirteen years old. Through very tactful interviews of the parents, and especially other kids, it was determined that these four had had dealings with a child that had been killed in a playground accident a year before. It was Sam and Dean's belief that this child had come back and exacted some sort of revenge on the four teens.

"The kids might have been bullies, but they didn't deserve to die," Sam reminded himself.

"Neither did he," Dean retorted, hearing Sam's words.

When they opened up Michael Robertson's coffin, it was all the brothers could do to keep their composure. Even though the boy's body had been buried for a year, and the mortician had done his best, it was easy to see that Michael did not have a quiet death.

"Doesn't look like it was a playground accident," Sam whispered.

"Eye for an eye," Dean remarked, as he started spreading the salt down.

"We're gonna have to do this again, Dean," Sam added, gaining his composure and pouring the gasoline.

Dean nodded as he lit the match. "Four more times."

00000

The brothers wound up having to stay in town for another three days – until the funerals for the four teens were over and done, and they were buried in the ground. Having to dig up the four graves and burn the bodies inside, while the graves were still fresh – it was a little less noticeable that way – was better than burning down the funeral home in order to prevent four future teenaged bully ghosts.

When all was said and done, the two tired, sore and weary brothers left town, with no other destination in mind other than south.

For several hours, while Dean drove, images of the kids – Michael Robertson, especially – kept interrupting his thoughts.

He'd seen dead children before; he'd even killed their ghosts and burned their bones before – he was, unfortunately, several up on Sam in that department. So why was this gig bothering him so much?

He'd known what to expect when they opened Michael's coffin. _He'd_ been the one to investigate Michael's death, not Sam. He'd seen the police reports, the pictures from the playground a year before. Sam was right. His death may have taken place at the playground, but it was no accident. Why the hell the police, or Social Services for that matter, had never done anything to those kids? The police had known exactly what had happened and who had done it.

The problem with small towns, Dean mused, is that everyone knew everyone; they took care of their own. Out of nowhere, the interior of "Davy's" flashed through Dean's mind. Todd and Maren's voices echoed through his soul, taunting him. The other people there just looked away, not caring about what was happening to him, ignoring his pleas for help. Dean squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, willing them away. _No, _he thought. _Sometimes they _don't_ take care of their own. Sometimes they just brush the problems to the side, ignore them, because they don't know how to take care of them, or get rid of them._

When Dean realized that his hands were sore from gripping the steering wheel too hard, maybe subconsciously exacting his own sort of revenge, if only in his mind, he decided that finding a motel to crash in for the night was probably a good idea. He shook out his hands and let out a breath he'd been holding.

"Dean?" Sam called. "You okay? Want me to drive?"

"I'm fine, Sam," he replied automatically. "Just tired. Should be a motel up ahead about fifteen miles. We'll stop there."

"Sounds good."

00000

"I'll get the room," Sam offered when they arrived at "Nicole's Night Owl Inn" twenty minutes later.

"Okay," Dean replied and grabbed a few things from the back seat of the car.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean emerged from the bathroom, naked, vigorously rubbing a towel over his hair. He headed for his bed, and the duffel bag on top.

"Place across the street looks to be hopping," Dean said as he rummaged in the bag for some clean clothes.

Sam tried not to stare at his brother, once again seeing the newest scars that still shone bright pink on his back and abdomen. He was startled by Dean's words, though.

"You're going over there?"

"I need some beer."

"You sure?"

"What do you mean, '_am I sure?_'" Dean balked, stopping his rummaging and looking at Sam.

"I just mean… I'll go with you."

"No, Sammy. You tell me what you mean," Dean demanded, folding his arms across his chest.

Sam took a big breath and let it out, taking the time to try to pick and choose his words carefully. "I just meant… I wondered…"

Dean caught the meaning, and realized that Sam had caught sight of his scars. "I think I can go into a bar by myself, Sam!" he shouted and tugged on a pair of boxers. "I'm a big boy, you know. Even got the fake ID to prove it."

"It's just that… I haven't known what to say, Dean," Sam pressed, his frustration heard in his voice. "I know what those kids did to Michael Robertson last year; why you didn't tell me."

The words of the reports and pictures from Michael's autopsy once again flashed painfully through Dean's mind. He and the boy had some of the same bruises and injuries. "It wasn't important, Sam. We had a job to do, and we did it. End of story," he countered, pulling on his jeans with such force that he almost tripped.

"You haven't said a word about what happened in that bar; how you feel. Whether you-"

"How I _feel_? I _feel_ fine, Sam! Not that _you'd _believe that, Dr. Phil! So what do you want to hear, Sam?" Dean demanded, moving closer to his brother, seething. "You want to know all the gory details?"

"Dean. No," Sam whispered, shaking his head.

"You want to know how that bitch slammed my head down onto the pool table!" he shouted, pointing to his head. "Three times? You want to know how her brother used a cue stick on my kidney for baseball practice?" he went on, turning slightly, showing the still dark bruising on his back.

"Dean…"

"Or how about this? You can see it up close, now," Dean went on, turning back to face Sam, shoving down on the waistbands of his jeans and boxers, showing the still fading scars and bruises on this belly, saying, "See how the corner of the pool table dug into me when they fucked me?"

"Stop it!" Sam cried. "Dean!"

"Oh, I know. You want me to bend over and show you my ass?" he continued, ignoring Sam's pleas.

"NO!" Sam shouted, shoving his brother, forcing Dean to stagger back and land on the bed. "I don't need to know the details. I_ know_ what they did to you." Dean gave him a skeptical look. "You've been putting up this big, stupid front since it happened, Dean," he said. "Pretending like it didn't happen; _'It was just a fight'_"he mimicked. "I'm not stupid, Dean. You think you can just go on, as if nothing happened." Sam shook his head. "And this blaming thing – you haven't said it, but I know you're blaming yourself. It _wasn't_ your fault, you know."

"Of _course_ it was my fault! I let my guard down. I screwed up."

"They drugged you!" Frustrated, Sam turned away from Dean and ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. When he turned back, he asked, "Was it Michael Robertson's fault!" He quickly continued on before Dean could answer, demanding, "Or what if it happened to me? Would you blame me? Would you say it was all my fault?"

"No, of course not-" Dean stammered.

"So why is it _your_ fault!" Sam shot back.

"Because I left myself open to it. I wasn't paying attention!"

Before Sam could say anything more, Dean moved around the bed and put on the rest of his clothing. Cursing his brother for bringing up what he felt was a dead subject, something he did not want to remember, let alone talk about, he quickly, harshly, put on his shirt, jacket and boots and headed for the door, only to find it blocked.

"Dean," Sam whispered, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. Don't go."

"Fine. You're sorry," Dean told him. "Now get the hell out of my way," he added and shoved Sam to the side when he didn't respond.

"Dean!" Sam shouted to the door that slammed in front of him.

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Dean walked into the bar, "The Dark Horse Tavern," and eyed the place carefully. It wasn't a big place, but it was crowded, packed with what looked like the local population. There wasn't a band, but a DJ was currently playing some Country. Dean didn't care at the moment. He'd endure the twangy music, some guy singing about losing his pick up truck, wife and horse and not knowing which was the worst. He shook his head.

He approached the bar, nodding to the two men he had to get in between to gain the bartender's attention. "A bottle of… Bud," he told him, hating the hesitation in his voice, remembering the last time he'd had a bottle of beer. He traded a couple of singles for the brown bottle and moved to stand against one of the support beams near the dance floor.

Several couples of varying ages danced together as Dean watched. They all seemed happy; dancing, talking, laughing. They all seemed… normal. He bet not a one of the people in the entire bar had any clue as to what was out in the dark, lurking under their kids' beds, skulking around in the local cemeteries… He took a swig of his beer. A flash of blonde caught his eye and Dean almost spit out the beer in his mouth. He closed his eyes and steadied himself. _Get a grip, Deano._

If only we hadn't gone to that Godforsaken town. If only I hadn't seen what they'd done… If only I could forget…

Dean was startled as a hand landed gently onto his shoulder and he was brought back to the here and now.

"Just me, Dean," Sam said quietly.

Dean wanted to yell at Sam, tell his brother, again, that he was quite capable of being in a bar by his lonesome, but didn't. He just nodded to his brother, though, unable to put his thoughts into words beyond, "Buy you a beer?"

"Sure," Sam replied.

A/N: Sorry for the delay – real life and all… Thanks to November's Guest and Shywalk for the help and beta work. More soon, I promise! Probably one more chapter to go…


	8. Chapter 8

A few minutes later, the brothers found a table near the bar and sat down with their beers. Another few minutes went by before Sam broke their silence.

"I'm sorry, Dean," he said. "I shouldn't have pushed you."

"Damn straight," Dean replied, pointing the top of his beer bottle towards Sam. "What if the bed wasn't there? I could've been hurt."

Sam tried not to roll his eyes. He knew Dean knew what he was talking about. And it wasn't the physical push. "Dean…"

"It's _over_, Sam!" Dean insisted, then, conscious of his surroundings, quietly added, "Let it be," before rising from the table and heading toward the exit.

Sam sighed, watching the retreating figure. He reminded himself that he still needed to let Dean take control, make decisions for himself, even if that included Dean keeping his emotions bottled up inside. Sam finished his beer, resigning himself to the fact that he'd just have to be there to pick up the pieces when his brother finally crashed, because somehow he knew it would eventually come to that.

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Dean was tired of fighting with Sam. He couldn't understand why his brother kept bringing up that night. The assault. His loss of control.

He looked at the outside wall of the bar, the streetlight across the alleyway lighting it up. The entire side of the building was one large mural, depicting a horse's head and the name of the tavern above it. He leaned against it, bending his right leg and propping his foot flat against the wall and feeling the cool painted brick against the back of his head.

_What does Sam expect? Some chick-flick moment where I break down crying, telling him that the bad people had violated me and I was forever traumatized by it? That I'd never have sex or play pool again?_ "Right."_ I'd have done both of those things tonight, in this place, given the chance. But Sammy showed up._

"Who the hell are you kidding, Dean? You barely bought a beer on your own…" he muttered to himself. 

Some noise at the end of the alley caught Dean's attention, interrupting his thoughts. He pushed away from the wall and headed toward the muffled voices. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

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Sam looked up from his beer to see the bartender and another man, the bouncer, running for the back door of the bar. Sam saw the small crowd following, several mentioning a fight of some sort, and followed them. He didn't need his special powers to know that Dean was somehow involved.

Once outside, he shoved his way past three or four people and saw Dean being pulled off some guy by the bouncer. There was a young woman nearby crying. From the look of her, it was obvious what the man Dean had fought had been trying to do to her.

"NO! Get off me!" Dean shouted, struggling against the bouncer's strong grip. "Get the fuck off me!" Sam rushed over to them. It was fear he heard in Dean's voice, not anger.

"Let him go!" Sam ordered. But the more Dean struggled, the tighter the man's hold became. "I'm his brother, I'll take care of him," he pled. "Dean," Sam called, hoping to get Dean's attention. "Calm down." But as the bouncer loosened his hold, Dean broke it, lashing out blindly. Sam blocked the punch and shoved his brother down to the ground, but that didn't stop Dean from continuing his fight. "Dean! Damn it!" Sam shouted, grabbing onto Dean's arms and pinning him down.

"Stop it! Fuckers! Stop!"

"Dean! It's Sam! It's Sam! Come on, Dean, it's me! Stop!"

Sam's voice and words finally got through and Dean stopped his struggles. "Sam?" he whispered, as if waking from a dream, looking around them. "Sammy?"

"It's okay," Sam soothed. "It's okay." He looked around at the crowd that had gathered and saw that the woman was gone. "She okay?" he asked about her. "What happened?"

Dean shoved Sam off of him and pushed himself up and back against the painted wall, dropping his head into his hands.

The bartender, holding onto the man Dean had fought, replied, "Joe here just went too far with Lisa, again." He shook his head, and then added, "She's okay, though. And we'll send him home."

"Take your friend home," the bouncer put in. "We'll handle this."

"Yeah, you'll handle this," Dean ground out as he got to his feet. Looking at the bartender, bouncer and the remaining crowd, he continued, "The guy should be shot! He was trying to _rape_ her, for crying out loud! What the hell is _wrong _with you people!"

When Dean lunged for Joe and the bartender, Sam grabbed onto him, holding him by his leather jacket. "Dean…"

"You better take your friend home," the bouncer repeated, menacingly, stepping in front of his coworker.

Sam dragged Dean back, heading toward the alley's entrance, but said, "He's right. A woman was almost raped, and you're just letting this guy get away with it." He shook his head in disgust. "They're not worth it, Dean. Let's get out of here."

Dean finally stopped struggling, broke free of Sam's grip and stalked out of the alley, heading toward their motel.

"We're getting out of this town, Sammy," he said as he entered their room, immediately grabbing his duffel bag.

"Dean…" Sam began, yet not knowing what more to say. He closed the door behind him and stood next to his brother. "Dean, what happened back there?"

"You saw."

Sam took a breath and let it out. "I saw what happened to the woman. What that guy tried to do to her. But what happened to you?" he asked. Then, added, _"Tonight,"_ for clarification.

Dean just stood there, silently, staring down at his hands as they toyed with the zipper of his duffel bag.

"Talk to me, big brother," Sam whispered, his heart beating uncontrollably as he charged into the unchartered territory of his brother's emotions. "You weren't there," he went on, cautiously, gently, touching the side of Dean's head. "Back in the alley. You weren't there, tonight. You were back in that other town, at "Davy's," weren't you?" It was a statement, answering his own question.

Sam nearly broke down himself, as the tears welled up in his brother's eyes, as Dean's lips trembled when he whispered, "I couldn't fight them." As Dean looked up and turned his head to meet Sam's gaze, the tears broke free, wetting his cheeks. "I couldn't fight them," he repeated.

Sam could only whisper Dean's name, not finding the words to comfort his brother, and moved his hand toward Dean's shoulder, hoping his physical touch would convey some form of comfort. But Dean just batted it away and stalked toward the other side of the motel room.

"Don't you get it, Sam!" Dean cried. "I couldn't fight them! I couldn't do a damn thing to stop them!" He returned to the bed, retrieved his knife from under the pillow and held it out in front of himself. "Even if I had _this_ with me, I couldn't have used it! I was fucking helpless, Sammy!"

"As helpless as Michael Robertson. And that woman."

Dean stared at Sam, the comparison stopping him cold. He took another look at his knife, tossed it into his duffel bag, and sat down heavily onto the bed, dropping his head into his hands.

Sam sat down next to him, close enough that their shoulders just touched. "You'll get it back; the control," he said. "It's just gonna take some time."

Dean shook his head, closing his eyes as he did so. "I couldn't watch him do that to her. I couldn't let him."

"Of course not," Sam agreed.

"But… I just… I still had no control, Sam," he went on, opening his eyes and looking at Sam again. "Back in that alley, as I was the one doing the fighting, the hurting…"

"They, Todd and Maren, they were still in control?" Sam suggested.

Dean nodded, quietly admitting the truth. "Yeah," he whispered.

Sam tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling as he tried to figure out what to say next. "It's like a car crash," he finally said, his voice low. "You wear your seatbelt, obey the speed limit… but sometimes, out of nowhere, some semi comes along and T-bones you. Nothing you can do. It's totally out of your control." He brought his head back down and forced Dean to look at him. "It wasn't Michael's fault, it wasn't that woman's fault, and it wasn't your fault, Dean." He watched Dean swallow, his brother's Adam's Apple bobbing up and down, as he digested his words.

"I let my guard down," Dean argued, using the same words he'd used earlier in the night.

"Despite what Dad says, we're not soldiers, Dean," Sam countered. "Yeah, we fight the bad guys, and yeah, we might even be better trained than some real soldiers, but that's not whatwe are. Even _we_ need some down time. Hell, _you're _the one that's always trying to get _me_ to have some fun. You didn't do anything wrong, Dean. We were done with the hunt."

"Took my seatbelt off too soon?" Dean asked going back to Sam's analogy.

Sam knew Dean was going to be okay, now, and went with it. "The car was in the garage, Dean. Shouldn't have needed one," he replied, raising an eyebrow.

"This is already getting really corny, you know that, don't you?"

Sam smiled. "Next thing you know, we'll be parked at a drive-in, watching a chick flick."

Dean dropped back to lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Sam did the same.

"I think we'll just crash here for the night, Sammy. Leave in the morning."

"Sounds good."

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**A/N: Thanks so much to my beta readers, Shywalk and November's Guest – your feedback has been invaluable. And thanks to all of you who have reviewed – your feedback has been invaluable, too!**


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